


kris vent fic

by orphan_account



Category: Deltarune (Video Game)
Genre: Cutting, Gen, Please Be careful, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-03
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-10-21 12:08:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17642507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: the tags say it all





	kris vent fic

**Author's Note:**

> this is 100% me projecting onto kris as a vent fic. there is explicit self-harm via cutting and no happy ending, even though they don't die or anything. i would very much recommend that you dont read this if that's triggering for you. if you do choose to read, please be respectful if you add a comment. also, dont misgender kris. theyre nonbinary and use they/them pronouns. okay thats all bye

It's something I shouldn't be doing, and I know it. I tell myself that over and over, thinking about how Mom would feel if she found out, or maybe my friends. If I could call Susie a friend, that is. I'm still not entirely sure if the closet incident was a dream or not and I don't want to risk asking just in case I did make it up.  
  
What was I talking about again?  
  
Oh, right. The razor blade in my hand.  
  
It started innocently enough. I woke up this morning, and yeah, I didn't feel great, but when do I ever? There was no school and mom was shopping, which meant there was no reason to get out of bed. So there I stayed. But that leaves me isolated with nothing to distract me from my brain spiraling and eventually putting me where I am now, hyperventilating on the toilet with my thighs exposed.  
  
Should I?  
  
No, obviously not, says the logical part of me. This is stupid and counterproductive and you're just going to feel guilty when you're done, like every other time you've done this.  
  
Do it anyway, says my panicked, overly-emotional side. Coincidentally, also the bigger side. I give in.  
  
The sharp metal is cold in reality, but the way I drag it across my skin burns in a way I can't even tell. It's a trick I've picked up over the time I've been doing this: cut with the corners. It's easier, it bleeds more, and it doesn't itch afterwards. Two, three, fifteen times I make that slicing motion like dicing fruit, and my legs are the cutting board. More and more are added until I can breathe again and my head quiets down.  
  
This is always the worst part.  
  
I'm sober again and I look at what I've done. And I think, g-d damn it, Kris, not again. Rational Brain is in charge again, and it sees the blood and red fat inside the wounds, and it reminds me that I'm a fucking idiot with no self control and a mess to clean up. So I do.  
  
I stand up, slow and shaky, and take deep breaths. Look for the toilet paper - there it is - and press the sheets to my injuries until they stop bleeding. Wipe them off. Rise the razor. Throw it away, Rational Brain demands. I decline, but I do flush the bloodied toilet paper before washing my hands and putting my weapon back in the cabinet. Right behind the flowery perfume Mom got me years ago, the kind that I appreciate but will never use.  
  
I finish picking up after myself and leave the bathroom feeling calmer, but worse. Oh well. Such is the price to pay. In my bedroom, I slip on a pair of loose-fitting shorts after making sure they'll cover the evidence, then slink back into bed. I need a nap, and laying under the covers, I tell myself that I won't feel as guilty when I wake up. I know it's a lie even as I think it.


End file.
